A Servant of Two Kings
by Juliana Brandagamba
Summary: It's 1485. Merlin has until now lived inconspicuously, but a desperate demand from the King of England for his help at once troubles and tempts him. Meanwhile, a familiar figure awakens on windswept Glastonbury Tor without the faintest idea what he is doing there. And whilst they are trying to sort out their own problems, England hurtles towards war.
1. The Hedge-Wizard

**High up in the Yorkshire Dales, near the village of Middleham**

There came through the woods a great clamour, and a clattering of hooves, and that excited barking of dogs that always signalled the start of a hunt. There was dust swirling about the horses that hurried down the roughly-marked paths, dust that was cast aside into the undergrowth and into the eyes of a man who sat distracted among the bushes, and who stood at this interruption and watched as the huntsmen raced by.

Yet they seemed to slow, and within mere seconds had halted, and at the head of the party a man with a dark cloak flowing behind him jumped down from his horse. He sheathed the horn that he had winded to command his men to stop, and turned so that he faced the man in the brush, who stood in surprise, not knowing what else to do.

He regarded this man who approached him with a wary eye. Though his cloak was dark, it was deceptive as to the rich scarlet clothes that he wore beneath it, and seemed merely for protection against those brambles that snaked up and down tree trunks and, in places, across the path.

'So!' said this important-looking fellow, 'you are the hedge-wizard.'

'That's what they call me, sir,' replied the man, his voice trembling just a slight bit; he looked down at his clothes, which were torn and covered with leaves and branches, and decided that just "hedge" would probably suffice for the moment at least.

The cloaked man chuckled a little. 'They told me you had little idea of current matters, but I did not know you would be so ignorant.'

'Ignorant, sir?' he asked innocently.

'Surely you do not recognise your King?'

And at this the man started, and bowed low without really realising what he was doing. 'Sire, I'm sorry. I didn't know what you looked like.'

'Evidently. And nor did you recognise my insignia.' The man tapped the tunic he wore on top of a thin sheet of mail, which sported the emblem of a boar emblazoned in silver thread. Though he looked a bit indignant, he still smiled, for he could tell that the wizard truly had not known him on sight. 'But come! These are petty quarrels. Take that horse, there. I shall speak with you later.'

'About what, sire?' asked the wizard, curious and more than a bit worried.

'Has none told you?' The King looked amused. 'I wish to learn about magic.'

'Sire,' said the hedge-wizard in surprise.

'Say nothing now. I wish to continue this hunt.' And with that he turned away and blasted his horn once again; at this signal the men straightened up on their horses, and those who had jumped down believing that the King would be a while talking started, and mounted their horses once more.

When he was satisfied, the King turned again, briefly. 'Your name, I believe, is Merlin, is it not?'

'Yes, sire.'

'Good. Get on that horse, and I will speak with you later.'

Then the King hurried to his own steed, and mounted it, and made to set off. Merlin, somewhat bewildered, stared for a moment at the horse he had indicated – a brown mare with a white mark on her forehead, sturdy and good-tempered, he could tell on sight, but not really accustomed to hunting.

 _You and me both_ , thought Merlin with a small smile, and clambered onto the saddle with the air of one who hasn't the faintest idea what he is doing.

* * *

The English were suspicious of those who possessed magic. It was a dead or dying art, Merlin knew that, and it was perhaps this rarity, this strangeness that created fear amongst the people. In another time, another age it had been common, even accepted; now they seemed to be back in old times. And he hadn't been able to protest, and nor had he had the confidence or the energy to: for he knew that his voice would be alone, and anyway he did not much like doing magic anymore. It brought back bad memories.

It was the prejudice against magic that had made him attempt to make his abilities secret, as he had done so long ago, but somehow he had gained the name of hedge-wizard, and he did not know quite whether people therefore knew of his powers, or whether he merely had the dishevelled and strange appearance of a magician, and his occasional occupation as a physician hinted at magic. Now, however, it seemed that the King knew of this name and of his magic. Would he be tortured or executed, like so many before him? He did not think so, somehow, considering the King's actions and words. But what did he mean, learn about magic? What did he wish to know? How to do it, or merely its history?

It was with these jumbled thoughts in his mind, as well as a few fleeting memories of a blurred forest and racing horses and the killing of a boar, that he stepped into the great hall of Middleham Castle. Here was a place he had often regarded from below, or from across the dale: a magnificent castle, one that, though it had not been intended for royalty, seemed to be well-suited as one of the houses of a monarch. He had never entered it, unsurprisingly: indeed, he had rarely entered any buildings this large and this opulent in a long while.

The men who had been on the hunt began to disperse, some of them disappearing off on urgent business or whatever, and some of them meandering around the castle until they were called for tea. The King however shepherded Merlin towards a small chamber off the hall and sat him down by the fireplace, before going to change into more suitable clothes. He returned to the chamber in a simple doublet that, were it not for the jewels about his shoulders and the rings upon his slight fingers, might have given the appearance of one far less important than a King. On his head was a dark hat, which he removed out of politeness as he re-entered the room, and which he set down on the desk in the opposite corner.

Then the King came to the fire, which was lit, and sat opposite Merlin; he regarded him for a second before beginning to speak.

'I hope I have not surprised you overmuch,' he apologised. 'It must be a strange thing that I ask of you.'

'Yes, sire,' stammered Merlin.

'I am glad that I have managed to locate you, for I received notice that you were in Yorkshire, and hurried here to find you, hardly hoping that you would still be in the vicinity of my own dear Middleham.'

'Indeed, sire,' said Merlin.

His face must have given away more fear than he intended, because the King looked laughingly at him, seeming to question him. 'What troubles you?'

'I... I thought you might execute me, sire,' said Merlin, perfectly truthfully.

'Ah! Then I pity you, for I must have terrified you. Alas! that I should have such little tact. But, Merlin –' and as he tasted the name he seemed to falter a little, and there was some spark in his eyes '– I have at first but one thing to ask of you. It – it is my wife, Merlin. She is ill, and the doctors have tried all they can, and they believe that they can do nothing for her.'

'I myself am a tolerable physician,' said Merlin, as if forgetting for the moment that he was also a magician, 'but if others have failed, then –'

'There must be some spell you can use.'

Merlin furrowed his brow, and said nothing. He had seen people perish of illnesses – so many people, and though people came to him, people who did not know of his magic, or people who did not fear it, pleading for his help, they usually came too late, and managed only to heap a heavy burden of guilt upon the poor man's shoulders. He did not want to risk the King's wrath if he could not heal his Queen.

'Some spell... some potion... anything.'

'What is she ill with?'

'They say consumption.'

Merlin shuddered. Consumption was one of those difficult ones, difficult to control, difficult to stop, and immeasurably difficult to heal, with or without the help of magic. And it was a terrible disease, one that all men feared.

'Can you help her?'

Now the King leaned towards him, his eyes pleading; and within these eyes Merlin saw a deep, intense emotion – the sadness of loss, a loss he had suffered before now and which still preyed on his mind; and he was so desperate that he could not bear to lose another. Hence he had resorted to nothing less than magic.

Merlin blinked and looked away. He knew what it was to lose someone so close to you. 'I can't guarantee it, sire.'

For a moment, the King's jaw worked, as if he was going to shout out some angry comment or a curse; but he was not taken by the devil of anger, and managed to keep his composure. 'I... understand that. But please, you must try.'

'Where is your wife?'

'Come.'

Then he stood, and led Merlin from the room; Merlin saw that the confident King who had approached him in the forest was gone, and replaced by half of that man; and he knew that if he did not succeed in the task he had been set, he would perhaps destroy this fragile monarch.


	2. A Spark In His Eye

**Middleham Castle**

Upon a bed in one of the other chambers lay a woman, a pale-faced woman who might once have been pretty, but who now appeared haggard and old despite her mere twenty-eight years; the consumption was beginning to destroy her, and though she yet clung to life, and might live a good while longer though she suffered, it was mere willpower that would keep her from the realm of insanity. It is a sorry sight to behold in any woman, but to see the Queen so afflicted is terrible beyond words, and Merlin could scarcely bring himself to look into those dull, weary eyes. The King, too, did not like to look, but he had to, and addressed his wife thus:

'My wife, here is a man who may be able to help you. He is a magician.'

'A magician,' the Queen stuttered out, and descended into a fit of harsh coughs.

'His reputation runs before him, his powers are extraordinary. Let him attend to you.'

Merlin knew that he had no reputation, and that none knew of his true powers, and so deduced that the King was trying to reassure his Queen with what he knew full well might be false hopes. That might have reassured the poor woman, but it made Merlin shudder, for he did not want to know what would happen if he failed.

So Merlin knelt by her bedside, and took her clammy hand, and began to focus his mind and energies upon the great reserve of magic that he possessed; he clutched at it, and closed his eyes, and began to murmur some long and convoluted spell; the atmosphere in the room began to crackle, and the King felt his fingers tingle. He watched the magician at work with something akin to great wonder, but also a primeval terror, for it is the strangest of experiences to see a man call upon ancient and incredible powers, and to work magic that has not been seen in England for many centuries.

And when he had come to the end of the enchantment, Merlin opened his eyes, and a flash of gold flickered there for a moment; then he let go of the Queen's hand and stumbled backwards a little, before standing and looking between the King and Queen with frightened eyes.

There was a very long silence; the Queen had ceased to cough, and even her breathing, which had previously been harsh and rattling, seemed to have stopped; perhaps the King thought that she was dead, for he sprang forth, but just as he reached the bed he saw two sparkling eyes looking up at him from a face beautiful as the day, and without truly realising what he was doing fell upon his wife and kissed her, for she was healed.

* * *

The great hall had never been so opulent, the food so rich, the music so loud and joyous. Everywhere, people: entering through every door, and chatting in corners, and swirling as they joined the carefree dances that occupied the centre of the room; the colours were magnificent, the colours of the dresses and the tunics and the hats, the burning warm orange of the candles that stood at every window; there was a smile on every face; and the music was sublime, for there were twenty of England's finest musicians playing to the highest degree, as if their very life depended on it. The King had held dances and feasts before now, but they had been mere formalities. Now he showed that he truly knew how to celebrate what seemed to everyone little short of a miracle.

Merlin was now washed and clean-shaven and dressed in finery, and this had had the unexpected effect of making him blend in, for none would have guessed that this handsome young gentleman was in fact the hedge-wizard who had been so important in the affair. Many looked to speak to this extraordinary fellow, but few located him, and Merlin was in fact rather glad that nobody was pestering him. It was a splendid event the King had put on, and he did not have to act as a servant at it, indeed he felt like nobility, and he was truly enjoying himself for the first time in a long while. More than often a lady would slip her arm in his and drag him off to the dance, and though he was clumsy he tried his best, and his efforts at least were appreciated.

At length the King found a suitable opportunity to come over to him to talk, for in his dumb joy at seeing his wife alive and well he had said little to her saviour; and so, stroking the stem of the wine-glass in his hand, he approached Merlin and greeted him.

'Your Majesty,' said Merlin, a little uncertainly, for he didn't really know how he was supposed to address him.

'Nay, do not bow; it is I who should bow to you. Your spell was remarkable: my wife is well and beautiful again, and...' His eyes went misty for a moment. 'I do not know how to thank you.'

'You don't have to,' Merlin said vaguely, and a smile sprang to his lips. 'I did what I had to, for you and for England, that's all.'

'My dear Merlin, you cannot go unrewarded.'

Merlin tried to stop himself from remembering a time long ago, when another King had given him what he thought would be a just and honourable reward. 'If you say so, sire.'

'Well, choose your reward, then.'

'Me? Choose?' stammered Merlin.

'You can have anything,' the King said, sipping his wine; it was evident from his bright confident smile and red cheeks that this was not his first glass.

'Anything,' Merlin echoed.

'I am King! I can offer you anything but my own title.' He chuckled. 'Name it, I shall give it to you. Untold riches! A knighthood? Perhaps you would like one of my cousins as a bride...' The King's eyes flicked towards a small group of giggling young women, all of whom were rather pretty, and at least two of whom had insisted that Merlin dance with them this evening.

'Oh, no, sire,' said Merlin rather too quickly. He had scarcely met the man, and now he was trying to offer him his relatives.

'Elizabeth is particularly beautiful...' The King laughed. 'No. I am not fully serious. But truly, Merlin: there must be something you want.'

'There are a few things,' murmured Merlin, 'but none are possible.'

'Not even with magic?'

'Not even with magic.'

'Except,' Merlin said then, 'I suppose you could let me try to bring magic back to England.'

'Indeed!' the King said, as if that had been his plan all along. 'You shall have all you need, if that is what you want. There are many people eager to learn about magic...'

'Including you,' twinkled Merlin.

'Yea, indeed,' he replied. 'But first, Merlin... I am afraid there is one other thing I shall have to ask of you – and this is almost certainly a more complex problem than the first.'

'Sire?'

The King steadied himself with another sip of wine, and lowered his voice. 'You have saved my Queen; now I need you to save England.'


	3. Meanwhile, in Somerset

**Glastonbury, south-west England**

Glastonbury Tor is windswept at the best of times, irreconcilably bleak at the worst, and certainly not the best place to wake up after believing you were in a warm bedroom and having the most marvellous dream. Images of friends, castles, fireplaces vanished before Arthur's eyes as he slowly came to the realisation that he was halfway up a barren hill and looking out over acres of dull countryside, and he had no idea how he had got there.

Also, he was dressed in some ethereal white gown that had never featured in his wardrobe.

He sat up, and saw that it was beginning to rain. He rubbed his eyes and wondered how on this Earth he had got here – wait.

The memories returned in confusing waves. First came the image of a battle – the battle of Camlann, at once great and terrible: the death-place of too many good men; then he recalled the leafy dampness of a forest – Gaius. Gaius and Merlin. Yes, Merlin. He had been there, he had said something – he had said that he possessed magic. He ought to have remembered that sooner...

Then he saw a lake, a swirling mist of the same colour and texture as this damned gown that was becoming heavy as the rain soaked into it. A voice – Merlin's voice. A voice filled with tears, the tone that comes with heartbreak –

 _Good God_ , thought Arthur. _I'm dead._

Then: _This is a funny sort of heaven._

He began to wonder if Hell was in fact not a burning inferno, but a dull hillside in Somerset where it rained permanently, and with that rain that is so thin and mist-like that one scarcely thinks it can soak one, yet within minutes one is wringing waterfalls from one's sleeves. It occurred to him that he did not know what he had done to merit going to Hell.

But Arthur was a rational man, and so instead of despairing and going through in his mind all of the acts he had committed that might have brought him here, he stood and began to stagger down the hill, in the hope of finding out where he was.

As soon as he reached the bottom of the hill and turned round he realised that he knew the place. As he had lain on the shore of the lake of Avalon, his eyes, blurred with tears, had looked out across the waters and the mist, and rising from that white void there had been a verdant slope, and on top of that the elusive castle-in-the-mist, whether a fairy-castle or merely some mysterious tower no-one knew. Yet here was that tower, upon the hill; the hill was that same slope, though its verdure had been replaced by the almost-grey of struggling grass.

So this was Avalon.

He thought of scaling the hill once more, to see what was at the top, but he knew on seeing the tower that it would no longer be that fanciful outpost of old, but an abandoned ruin that held nothing of interest, and much less magic. Therefore he decided it would be more productive to go to where he thought he had left Merlin, and see if he was still there.

* * *

The lay of the land was different, and the forest had begun to diminish, and Arthur was disorientated beyond compare. He staggered through this woodland, this woodland that looked so similar and yet bore differences that were striking for one who knew the place so well; he emerged on an outcrop of land, and looked to the east, but all he could see were fields and hills stretching out as far as the horizon, which did not give him any indicator as to why everything felt different. Perhaps coming back from the dead did something to one's senses, or addled one's brain a bit. Perhaps.

But that didn't explain why this area was farmland, rather than barren waste, as it had been. Surely he had not been asleep for long enough for farmers to dig up the entire plain. Surely not.

Arthur was a rational man, and it was irrational things like this that made him wish he had more imagination. He couldn't explain what had happened, whether he was still dreaming, even where he was – because it certainly wasn't where he had expected to find himself. To be perfectly honest, the question wasn't _where_ he was – it was more _when_ he was.

He gave up and began to walk towards a promising-looking inn.

* * *

It was scarcely evening, but the inn was already packed, and the reason for this was easily given by the heady scent of good beer and the ruddy friendly face of the landlord. Nobody looked up at Arthur's initial entrance, too absorbed by their conversation and by their drinks; then as soon as someone noticed what the man was wearing, there fell a terrible brooding silence.

His damp robe clung to him unfavourably, and he appeared in the semi-darkness almost as a spirit, albeit a very wet spirit. It was one thing for a stranger to turn up in the inn. It was another thing for a man in a dress to turn up in the inn, if indeed he was a mortal man. He met everyone's stares with an apologetic glance that said at once that he didn't know what was going on, either: he didn't like to be this helpless over current events, but he was defeated by the strangeness of everything, and was beginning to think that it was in fact a dream.

He tried to ignore everyone's glances, and the silence that followed him across the room, and went up to the barman and demanded a room and fresh clothes. He could not help but notice that everyone else was wearing strange clothes – stranger, indeed, to him than the gown was to them, or so he thought.

'Haughty feller, ain'tcha?' chuckled a man at the bar, who had overheard this request.

Arthur glared at him. 'Don't speak to me like that.'

The man grinned toothily. 'Why not? Who're you important?'

'I'm...' Arthur was about to proclaim his title, wondering why nobody had recognised him, but stopped himself. At first he might have blamed the dress, but there was something else, something he was missing.

'This is going to sound a strange question,' said Arthur hesitantly, 'but what year is it?'


	4. A Dream Come True

**Thanks so much to my reviewers and followers thus far! I hope you'll continue to enjoy this story.**

* * *

 **Middleham Castle**

England at that time, though it appeared safe and had done since the ascension of King Richard III two years ago, in fact stood on an unsteady foundation, for still within it there resounded the memory of the civil war that had wracked the country many years previously, and which still remained unresolved.

The two sides were the Yorkists and the Lancastrians, both arguing their own right to the throne, neither truly knowing who had the greater right, but fighting regardless in the hope that they might gain the ultimate power. Fourteen years ago there had been a battle at Tewkesbury, and the leaders of the Lancastrians had been defeated, and the Yorkists had taken the throne; now however there were voices resonating around the country that Lancaster meant to make another attempt at battle and the Crown.

Such was the situation, as the King explained in far more detail to Merlin; he feared that the rumours were true, that some descendent of the lords of Lancaster, exiled to France, now meant to come to England and usurp the throne.

Merlin listened carefully, and at the end of this tumultuous tale he sat and thought for quite a while, unaccustomed at present to dealing with matters of such import on the kingdom, and unused to taking the role of advisor rather than servant. At last he looked up from where he had been staring into the fire, and said: 'What is it you wish me to do, sire?'

'I don't know,' said the King vaguely. 'I don't know. I hold a great hope that we will defeat this usurper, but at the same time, I have enemies across the country. They say the man is building up an army... whilst he gains loyalty, I am losing it, I fear. Mine is an unsteady throne, Merlin.'

His eyes met the magician's. Merlin blinked and looked away.

'But there are rumours... yes, there are rumours, nay fireside tales, that – nay, that is ridiculous.'

'What?' asked Merlin.

'There are rumours,' said the King, 'and I do not know how true they are, but many are saying that you are _the_ Merlin.'

' _The_ Merlin?' asked Merlin, confused now.

The King furrowed his brow. 'The Merlin whose name alone inspires fantastical images in the minds of any boy who heard the tales when he was a youngster – the tales of King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table.'

'There are tales of...' Merlin looked astonished.

'But it would indeed be strange if you –' The King broke off. 'It is nothing; I was entertaining an idle notion.'

'No; you were –' Merlin took a breath. 'Sire, in a different time, a different age I served a king named Arthur, and he had a Round Table at which there sat the greatest knights in the land.'

The King looked at once intrigued and deeply sceptical. 'Yet the tales have been around for centuries. No mortal could have lived since then.'

'I do not believe I can be placed among mortals,' said Merlin without looking up.

'You have lived for centuries?'

'Yes.'

'And you served at the court of King Arthur?'

There was a boyish excitement, a childish abandon in the King's voice; as a child he had devoured such magnificent stories of chivalry and glory, the perfect romance, the great legend that founded his own personal philosophy; he had always wished to reign as magnificently as that great man Arthur, though he felt he had failed somewhat in that respect.

'Yes,' said Merlin, and he seemed to choke on the word.

'I should not believe you,' the King said then, his mind still lost in the fantastical legends.

'It is not easy to believe,' replied Merlin.

'Not easy! you are right, of course, for I do not believe that any rational man would believe it – but I, Merlin, I am a dreamer, I fantasise, I _want_ to believe it –' There was an indulgent smile upon his face. 'I believe it, Merlin. Truly. If nothing else, you are no ordinary man, and I can see centuries in your eyes.'

Finally Merlin looked up; his eyes glistened with tears, but were undimmed by them; his were eyes that had seen so much, had suffered so much – there was fire and ice there, wisdom and wit, laughter and sorrow – these were not the eyes of a mortal man. They were the eyes of a magician, and the greatest magician at that. King Richard III wanted to believe that this was _the_ Merlin, and for once his fantasies were absolutely correct.

'If you are truly him,' he said then, trying not to sound too excited, 'then – well, the legend says that –' He swallowed. 'It says that in England's great time of need, you will make it so that the Once and Future King rises once again.'

Merlin started and swallowed. He had not written such a glorious line, he had only ever wished that it could be so – that Arthur would come back when England needed him the most – when _he_ needed him the most. After centuries of watching and waiting he had almost given up hope.

'I do not believe that I can do that,' he murmured.

'You _must_ be able to,' replied the King stubbornly.

'I cannot! and at any rate, is this truly England's great time of need?'

'Yes!' the King cried, and stood with the momentum of this single word that seemed to resound with hope and despair at once.

'Sire,' protested Merlin.

'Do not speak!' he cried. 'You will do it, you will bring King Arthur to my aid. You do not know how difficult my reign has been; you do not know, evidently, how much danger my throne is in; you do not know what danger this usurper poses to my dear country –'

'Sire!' said Merlin, far from himself, and stood, and fire blazed in his eyes. 'I cannot do it, I tell you. It is not that I do not wish to do it, it is that I can't. I tell you, sire, if I could raise Arthur from the dead I would have done it a _long_ time ago.'

And spent, it seemed, by the effort of these words, he fell back into his chair; his head fell onto his hands; and a moment later he was wracked by convulsive sobs that shook his whole self.

'Merlin,' said the King weakly. 'Merlin.'

His legs went weak, and he fell to his knees beside the chair; his hands were clasped, and he took on the appearance of a desperate mendicant, far from his status as king. 'Merlin, I'm sorry.'

The magician ignored him, so absorbed was he in the grief that had overtaken him; the memories of losing Arthur washed through him, and he felt utterly destroyed; he wondered why he still waited, why he still lived, how he had coped for so long in this lonely world that was devoid of all that he had loved –

'Merlin,' whispered the King, one final time, wondering if he had lost the support of what he believed to be his last hope. And when he received no coherent response, he stood, shakily, and left the room.


	5. A Rival on the Horizon

**Middleham Castle**

King Richard III quietly abandoned the subject of resurrecting King Arthur, at least in his words: for in his mind he still considered the prospect of going into battle aided by this magnificent figure of legend, he still imagined his enemies fleeing in terror before the glorious army he would gather. But he had seen the effect it had produced on Merlin, and he had remembered the tales of Arthur's death at Camlann, and he had guessed that it had affected Merlin in such a way as was never told by the storytellers. They must, then, have been great friends, more than just a King and his advisor.

Merlin was however cheerful enough at other times, indeed a little too cheerful sometimes, pleasantly witty, and once he had got his head round the state of the country he proved to be a useful advisor, indeed a friend to the King. When it transpired that the King had to leave Middleham for London, Merlin wondered if he would be left in Yorkshire, to return to the life he had lead before; but no, the King came to him in person and requested that he come with him, for it would be his pleasure to install a magician at his court.

He had offered Merlin riches, or a wife of noble descent, and Merlin had refused the former because he did not need money to be happy, the latter because he thought he would never marry; but he was tempted by the idea of bringing magic back to this kingdom that had for so long spurned it, he was fascinated by what the post of Court Magician might entail – for had he not so hoped for such a title, had Arthur lived and returned to Camelot and overturned those laws banning magic? King Richard III was not Arthur – he was nothing close, for he was a timid and scholarly man, where Arthur had been brave and bold and confident – but Merlin counted on them being friends and working well together. He wondered what magic he would be asked to do, what skills he would have to dig from the abyss, it seemed, of his memories.

Preparations were underway for leaving the castle in the Dales, and Merlin was sitting staring at a book he had found to read, when he heard the door burst open, and the King entered looking flustered.

In his hand he clutched a piece of paper; he did not seem to see Merlin at first, but merely paced the room for a short while; then he stopped, and sat unsteadily in the chair by the fire. At last he looked up and caught sight of Merlin, who was watching him with worried eyes.

'I am threatened,' said the King, in the calmest voice he could muster.

'Threatened, sire?'

'There is a man heading north...' The King glanced down at the paper as if he thought it might explode. 'A man claiming that he, too, is a King.'

Merlin tried to reply with some pleasantry, some bumbling optimistic comment, but ended up stammering: 'He might be king of... of France, or Holland.'

'He says England.'

Merlin did not reply.

'Well... nay, I lie, he says Albion, but that is in essence the same –'

'Albion,' said Merlin flatly.

'Indeed.'

'King of Albion.'

'I believe he is a pretender, or a usurper, and an unconvincing one at that.' The King waited a moment for Merlin to agree with him; but the magician merely let his fingers go to his temples, and sat there for what seemed like an age in deep thought. His eyes went downwards to the book before him, but he did not read it, unless he read his own thoughts upon the paper.

'He definitely said Albion?' said Merlin at last.

'My men thought it was some kind of joke.'

'What is this man's name?'

'I do not know... Merlin, speak, if you know something. What troubles you? You cannot expect to be able to keep your thoughts to yourself, when your face tells of every emotion that crosses your mind.'

'Arthur's kingdom was called Albion.'

'...Good God.'

The silence that fell following these words was deafening; the two men stared at each other, and neither could find the words to express those extraordinary thoughts that now crossed their minds.

'I wish to meet him,' murmured Merlin, hardly able to contain the rush of emotion that flooded his pale cheeks with an excited, anxious red.

'I shall ask that he be brought before me in London,' replied the King.

'Arthur wouldn't like that,' said Merlin, grinning despite himself.

'You think he is Arthur?'

'No, I _want_ him to be Arthur. I hardly dare hope that –'

'But how could he be?' pondered the King, returning to the rational after their brief spell in the reckless land of hopes and desires; he knew himself that what they were saying was hardly plausible.

'I don't know,' said Merlin at last, deflated. 'I don't know. But who else would claim he was king of Albion? He would be a damned poor usurper, if he got the name of the kingdom wrong... Have you any more information on this man?'

The King's eyes swooped down to the letter again. 'Nothing.'

'Tell them to send him to London, then, so we can meet him. And let's set off as soon as we can.'

The excitement in Merlin's voice and face were wondrous to see: he appeared almost childlike in his joy, and it was an infectious smile that spread from cheek to cheek. The magician was an optimist, in truth: he wanted so much to believe that King Arthur – his friend – was somehow returned, no matter how impossible it might be, and he was hoping with all his strength, as if willpower alone would make it true.

And King Richard III went to all of his servants, and to those nobles who would accompany him, and to his wife, and said to all of them: 'We set out for London tomorrow, at daybreak.'


	6. A Wizard and Two Kings

**London**

England seemed to Arthur unreal, as if he was wandering through the fairy-realm of Avalon, or through some dream that was not of his own making. He could not grasp being in the future; he knew now the year, but scarcely believed it; he could not cope with no longer being king, with Albion, indeed, no longer existing, either as a kingdom or even as a place that people would believe had ever existed. All he knew and loved had vanished into legends: it was surreal, and, if he thought on the matter too much, heart-breaking.

He had demanded an audience with none other than the King just to see if it was true, if another had taken his throne; and he deemed the King the only person who might tell him sensibly what was going on. King to king. Monarchy understood monarchy. He hoped.

So it was that he found himself in the Tower of London, which was then one of the residences of the King, waiting before a tall wooden door, flanked by two of the king's men. He did not speak to them; they did not make to address him. The thought occurred to him that he might be about to be imprisoned, or that he had at the least been arrested, and he shuddered a little.

At length a page emerged, and told him: 'His Majesty is ready to receive you.'

Arthur strode forth, exuding more confidence than he felt at that time, and entered the room, which was some sort of study looking out over the Thames; there in the seat by the fire was a small scholarly sort of man, dark-haired and with the sort of eyes that are made for reading books more than people, who looked up at his entrance and bade him sit down in the seat opposite.

He wore no crown, but it was clear from his actions that this was the King of England. Arthur had to hide his distaste as to who had ended up on the throne: his first impressions were of a younger Gaius. But there was a certain strength about him, and, on reflexion, he gave out a quiet air of command that subdued the other king somewhat.

'You, then, are the pretender king.'

'I'm not a pretender, sir.'

Their eyes met; they both frowned; the meeting was going badly already.

'You claim to be king of England.'

'Albion, actually,' Arthur corrected him, only a little insolently.

'And where is this Albion?'

'On the border with Wales...' Arthur lowered his eyes. 'I looked for it, and it seems it is not there anymore. Certain things would suggest to me that I am in the future. But that's impossible.'

A small smile twitched at the corner of the King's mouth. 'The future. That is an interesting statement. Might I, then, ask your name?'

'King Arthur.'

Richard's thin hands went to the arms of his seat, and he tried to suppress the sudden rush of excitement that had come over him. So it was true! this was the Once and Future King, King Arthur, King of Camelot, founder of the Round Table! And yet he sat before him like a supplicant, not in the least relaxed, looking dazed and bewildered; this man whom rain and cold weather, as well as confusion and disbelief, had battered into a poor representation of himself. Tall and sturdy in appearance; but with a careworn face that did not suit the baffled expression it now made: there was something of an arrogance in the line of the eyebrows, and the square line of the jaw proved that he was a no-nonsense sort of man: his character was as angular as his face, he guessed.

Quite a different sort of figure, then, from the man who sat across from him, the actual King of England!

'Well,' said this latter man, 'I must admit, I am much inclined to believe you; but I must prove that you are indeed who you say you are.'

Arthur's hands went to his belt, but his sword Excalibur was not there; he looked down at himself, but he bore not the insignia of Camelot that had so often proclaimed his superiority before he even spoke; he spread his palms a little in despair, for it seemed there was little left of the man who had once reigned over Albion. 'I cannot prove it easily, sir, but I'm sure there is –'

But the King was no longer looking at him; he had risen from his seat, and was speaking to a page at the door; a moment later he came and sat back down, a half-smile on his face.

'There is one easy way to prove your identity,' he said.

'What?' asked Arthur, worried now.

'Why, to ask a friend to identify you,' replied the King. He indicated the door with his hand just as it opened, and in walked Merlin.

The wizard stopped on the threshold, and stared at the figure by the fire; Arthur met this stare with an almost comical look of incredulity, a look that Merlin knew so well that he felt tears come to the corners of his eyes. King Richard III watched this exchange of emotions with a broader smile than before, for it is a magnificent thing to see two old friends meet after so long apart.

Arthur, for whom it seemed but days since last he saw Merlin, stood to greet him in that cordial manner that only just breached what was right for a servant and his master; but as soon as he left the chair he was nearly bowled back into it by a running Merlin, who embraced him with such force that he almost winded him. Awkwardly he put his arms around the boy, who, by the sounds of it, was sobbing into the jacket he had acquired back in Somerset, and who clung to him as if trying to save him from some abyss.

'Arthur,' he whispered at last, and let go, as if he had just remembered that he and Arthur didn't really do hugs.

'Merlin,' said Arthur in return, still trying to hide his surprise. 'Merlin, how –'

'Nine hundred years...' murmured Merlin. 'I counted... Every single one of them.'

'Nine hundred _what_?' asked Arthur, in a voice tinged with cheerful disbelief.

'Nine hundred years,' said Merlin quietly. 'I've waited for you for nine hundred years.'

Unnoticed by either of them, King Richard III slipped tactfully out of the room.

'So it's actually 1485,' Arthur considered.

Merlin nodded.

'Good God,' said Arthur, and collapsed back into his chair. Merlin, not quite knowing what else to do, fell into the chair that had been vacated by the King, studying his friend with more affection than he meant to show. 'But that means... How did you live for nine hundred years?'

'I'm probably immortal,' said Merlin vaguely, and suddenly a smile sprang to his face, a smile that he hadn't worn for a long, long time. 'You're _back_ ,' he went on. 'It's actually you. You're back.'

'Apparently so.' Arthur grimaced good-naturedly. 'And apparently I'm no longer King, and the whole of England's been turned into pasture, and you're hob-nobbing with monarchs that aren't me.'

Merlin chuckled. 'The King – the other King, I mean – he's all right. He's not like you, though. More like – like Leon, or a younger Gaius.'

Arthur smiled as he made the same observation as he had.

'You're the better king by far, though,' Merlin grinned. 'Which is impressive for a clot-pole.'

'Merlin!' cried Arthur in mock annoyance, and the two dissolved into childish giggles.

After a moment spent remembering times past, they became more serious all of a sudden, and Merlin said: 'But how – when – what happened that made you come back? Were you in Avalon all this time?'

'I don't know.' Arthur furrowed his brow. 'The last thing I remember is the lake – you, your face – then nothing. I woke up on a hill. The locals called the place Glastonbury or something.'

'Glastonbury Tor,' Merlin murmured. 'Where Avalon used to be... So you don't remember... anything in between?'

'No,' said Arthur. 'In between dying and coming back to life again – no.'

'You don't know _why_ –'

'Why what?'

There was a long silence. Merlin seemed to be thinking over something deeply, but he did not appear to have come to a conclusion when he said:

'According to the King – the other King – the legend says that you will return in England's great time of need. He thinks this is it, because there is a usurper threatening to come over from France and take his throne by force – but – things like this have happened before. Like in 1066, when William of Normandy came over and killed King Harold and took the crown. That was a horrible time...' His eyes swooped downwards. 'I don't understand why that wasn't England's time of need, and this is.'

'Perhaps we'll find out,' pondered Arthur.

'Perhaps,' agreed Merlin uncertainly. Then, thinking out loud: 'I just can't help thinking that... well, there's something we're missing. Henry Tudor – he's the usurper – has a certain amount of support, but – if this is England's great time of need, then there must be something more than a man and his army that we have to fear. King Richard is an excellent commander in battle...' Arthur looked sceptical, but did not challenge this. 'He led his army to victory in two battles back in 1471. And he has a good strong army on his side. We're missing something, we must be, if England's time of need is why you've returned. Tudor's hiding something.'

'Or maybe I just came back to keep you in check,' Arthur said, chuckling. 'You, with a high position in the King's court – what did you do to deserve that? Polish his boots extremely well?'

'Actually, I saved the Queen's life by magic,' Merlin said seriously, 'and then said I would help him when he pleaded for my aid. If you think you can do a better job, do one. I'm sure the King would like your expertise on our side.'

'Well, you're your usual cocky self,' said Arthur; but his smile soon faded from his face when he realised that Merlin was not in the mood for jokes. 'Well! I don't know. Can I help any? Will the King –' he spoke that word with some difficulty '– accept and respect my help?'

'He practically worships you,' said Merlin, who grinned suddenly. 'King Arthur, the Once and Future King, the legendary figure who eclipses all other legendary figures! Of course he'll accept your help. He'll probably replace me with you and I'll end up a servant again.' He chuckled. 'But the first thing to sort out is what exactly he needs help with. Which could be difficult to find out, admittedly, seeing as the King doesn't really know himself...'


	7. Secret Weapons

**London**

Arthur's resurrection was celebrated by the King, and in normal circumstances this would have led to a country-wide celebration, with feasts held at every castle in England, and dancing and music and general extravagance in the King's London residences. This however did not happen, much as he might have liked to put on such a party, because Richard III did not wish to make it widely known that he had taken none other than King Arthur under his wing, and so had the strength of Old England on his side.

Arthur was of course still bewildered, because he did not know what it was he needed to do. Richard III had told him to wait until he gave the sign: then would he use him as a rallying call to arms, for when Henry Tudor landed in England and came to fight him, but until then it would be a close-kept secret.

The King offered Arthur a house near to the Tower, and Arthur had to accept, because this was the King after all; and so Merlin accompanied him to this house, chattering all the while – as he had done since Arthur's return, incessantly, for there was so much to say, he claimed. Arthur had thought Merlin a chatterbox. He did not have a word for something more than that, but Merlin was one, and it was growing annoying, but he let him talk, and usually only half-listened.

The place was well-furnished, and Arthur liked it on sight. He had been provided with a small arsenal of servants, the majority of whom were quiet unsmiling peasant-types who would bow to his every request without ever addressing him. Arthur did not know if this was an improvement from the flippant, slightly insolent nature of Merlin, who had been at once the worst servant in terms of manners and to some extent ability, and yet the greatest servant he could ever have wished for.

There was something of the servant left in Merlin: he ran to open doors for Arthur, before remembering that he did not have to, and managing to shut them in his friend's face (accidentally on purpose, most likely); and on finding the bed unmade he pulled the covers straight (or his version of straight, anyway). It was beginning already to feel like home.

'So! you're the King's secret weapon now,' Merlin grinned as they settled down by a roaring fire and a table laden with food.

'It seems so,' grimaced Arthur. 'I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.'

'Providing moral support, by the sounds of it,' replied Merlin. 'Once he lets it be known that you are on our side, people will rally to our cause. And the enemy will be terrified. That's the theory, anyway,' he added, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bread. 'I wish there was some way of stopping the confrontation, but –'

'Is it not possible with magic?' Arthur asked. He had some kind of idea that magic could do absolutely everything with minimal repercussions.

'What! you mean killing Tudor before he even reaches England?'

'Well, yes.'

'Well, I probably could do it,' Merlin considered. 'Or at the least, my ability stretches to being capable of killing people with magic. I dislike it though. And at any rate, we're still waiting to find out what Tudor's secret is.'

'Tudor's secret,' groaned Arthur. 'I don't believe he _has_ a secret. Why does it have to be that I came back because of some legend? Is there any truth to it?'

'I suppose we'll find out,' replied Merlin.

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door.

'Come in,' called Arthur.

Then there entered one of the King's servants, bold in his red and blue livery, and looking somewhat flustered. 'Message for Arthur from the King,' he said, and handed over a note before leaving.

'He's literally next door,' grumbled Arthur.

'Not that _you_ ever bothered leaving your study,' countered Merlin with a grin.

Arthur glared at him good-naturedly and unrolled the piece of paper. 'This man's handwriting is terrible,' he commented, squinting at the heavy Gothic script.

'By that you mean so much better than yours that you can't read it,' chuckled Merlin, which merited another glare. 'Anyway – read it out.'

'It's _my_ letter,' Arthur said indignantly, but read it aloud regardless:

 _Arthur,_

 _My spies in France report that there have been developments concerning Tudor's support. It seems he has a magician on his side. Please inform Merlin if you see him first. Do not let this information leave your house. I shall keep you updated on the situation._

 _Ricardus Rex Tertius_

'A magician!' cried Merlin. 'Is that all it says?'

'Yes,' replied Arthur, and after re-reading it he tossed it into the fire. 'So... there are other magicians?'

'A certain number,' replied Merlin. 'None of them posses any spectacular magic... and there was not long ago a spate of witch-burnings and things.' He shuddered. 'It was like your father's reign for a bit. Magicians were persecuted. I didn't think there were any left, to be honest, apart from me. No true practitioners. It's an ancient and dying art... It seems I was wrong.'

'But you're more powerful than him, surely,' Arthur said.

Merlin could only furrow his brow. 'I can but hope... I can but hope that he is some kind of charlatan, and not a magician at all. That would be the better situation.'

'Or we could turn him over to our side,' Arthur suggested vaguely. He was not much of a strategist when the business concerned magic. He did not understand it, and to some extent still did not trust it.

'It depends on what sort of magic he is using,' Merlin said.

'Magic is magic, isn't it?' asked Arthur, confused.

'Magic evolves. Magic changes. There are different types of magic – there is what people call hedge-magic, which is what I use, the ancient sort. The gentleman-magicians that sprang up not long after the fall of Camelot developed it, and called theirs town-magic, though it lost a lot of its raw power, and fell out of popularity. And then – well, there is dark magic.'

'You think Henry Tudor has employed a dark magician.'

'No! or at least, I hope not. I imagine if he is a true magician, he has tried to study the writings of the old town-magicians, and thinks his powers greater than they are. There are a few people like that around.'

Arthur rather hoped so too, though he also knew that Merlin was something of an optimist. 'So this magician isn't a major threat?'

'For the moment – no,' Merlin said. 'He has not attempted anything yet. I would know if he had.'

They dropped the subject then in favour of something more light-hearted, for it is a miserable thing to dwell on terrible things that might never happen, and for the most part relinquished this conversation to the backs of their minds. But just as Arthur was considering retiring to bed, and Merlin returning to his room in the Tower, the same messenger reappeared, and handed over another note from the King.

 _Arthur and Merlin._

 _The rumours concerning the magician are, it appears, true. Another of my spies arrived in London this afternoon. The French magician, it seems, claims to be a descendant of Morgana le Fay, but I don't know if this is remotely plausible. Leastways, I shall continue to keep a good eye on the situation in France, and keep you updated._

 _Ricardus Rex Tertius_

'A descendant of Morgana?' Merlin asked, believing he had heard wrongly.

'That's what it says... Morgana! She can't possibly have descendants. I don't believe she ever had children.'

They exchanged glances, and then went their separate ways, unwilling to believe these wild claims from the French magician, but at the same time more anxious than they liked to admit.


	8. An Offer He Can't Refuse

**Brittany (France)**

Henry Tudor's abode was decorated in a minimalistic sort of fashion, but it was somehow well-suited to the tall plain man who sat sipping the worst wine from that region, just because he was stingy about paying more for something that tasted tolerable, and studying the man whom he had just invited in with eyes duller than damp fog. He set down the glass and gave his guest a watery smile, and invited him to sit at the table.

'Your name is Nicolas, and you are a magician,' he said in perfect French (though it was tinted with a Welsh accent, a curious sound, it has to be said).

'Indeed, sir,' replied the dark-clothed man opposite him.

'And you are, I have heard, a descendant of two great English magicians.'

'Mordred and Morgana, sir,' Nicolas told him. 'Mordred was a druid, and Morgana a High Priestess of what was then called the Old Religion – essentially the study of what has come to be called hedge-magic.'

'So it is hedge-magic that you do.'

'I am capable of hedge-magic, indeed.'

'Show me.'

A pale hand swept towards nothing in particular; Nicolas stood, and murmuring some intriguing spell under his breath set alight the remnants of branches that were heaped in the cold fireplace. The flames headed towards the chimney, tentatively at first, and then in a blaze of light and warmth. Henry Tudor knew little of magic, but he could tell instinctively that this fire would continue to burn long after all of the wood had crumpled into ashes.

A small smile crept across his face. 'Good. Good.'

'Sir –'

Nicolas's hesitation seemed to last minutes, though in truth it was hardly a second.

'Yes?' asked Tudor into this untrusting silence.

'I am also capable – of dark magic.'

'Ha!' Tudor's eyes shone. 'It was rumoured that you were. Is it true, then, that dark magic is far more powerful than any other sort?'

Nicolas nodded. 'That is what is believed. Morgana herself developed dark magic from the tamer hedge-magic.'

'Yet she was beaten, was she not?' Henry Tudor leaned forwards and took another sip of the musty wine. 'Defeated, according to the legends, despite what you say is more powerful magic than any. How, then, do you explain that?'

Nicolas shuffled a little uncomfortably, scratching at the stubble on his chin that he had not had chance to magic away. 'There was at that time a greater wizard than any who has ever walked the earth – the wizard Merlin.'

'Indeed,' breathed Tudor, who, like Richard III and nearly all of the people at that time, had been brought up on the extraordinary legend of King Arthur, and for whom the very name of Merlin was enough to inspire excitement.

'It is said his powers were greater than anybody's... Anybody's before or since.'

Tudor relaxed a little. 'What became of him? – was he not shut inside a rock for all of time, or something?'

'Certain versions of the legend say that,' replied Nicolas. 'I do not know how much of the legends to believe, sir. Some say that Mordred was the son of King Arthur and the witch Morgause, but I do not believe that is possible, or even plausible. Some even believe that Arthur will rise again – ha! that is surely impossible.'

Tudor smiled vaguely. 'Indeed... Yet you believe, at least, that Morgana and Mordred existed.'

'Yes.' He nodded fervently. 'It is in my family... There have been numerous magicians, but none blessed with such powers as mine. The line began at a tryst between the witch and the druid of old –'

'Then the child born of them was illegitimate?' asked Henry Tudor, and at Nicolas's affirmative he gave him a small, enigmatic sort of smile. 'But his powers, I presume, were intact?'

'Actually... no,' said Nicolas. 'The magic skipped a few generations, I believe, and it was not until years later that there emerged such magic as had been seen in the old times. Magic is an unpredictable thing... But this is hardly relevant. I am a magician, sir, capable of greater magic than has been seen in a good many years, and ready to be of use to you in your campaign against England.'

'Against England? I am not campaigning against England. England is mine for the taking, and I do not wish to destroy it in the process. No, it is the King I campaign against, King Richard III. He is losing support as quickly as I am gaining it, from what I hear, but you will be the definitive nail in the coffin. Then, when we have won, and I am king, I promise that you will be rewarded highly.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Nicolas.

Henry Tudor grinned, and drained his glass without the slightest expression of disgust. 'With you on my side, we are sure to win. I shall set out for England as soon as I have gathered an army – though in truth I do not need an army, but I should meet the King in battle, as seems to be tradition.' He smirked. 'Victory is ours, Nicolas. I can taste it.'

Nicolas found himself also beaming at the confidence this man exuded. He did not quite know who he was – some branch of the Lancastrian family tree, and so vaguely related to some other monarch of England – nor whether he truly had a right to the throne, but he had finally found a use for his magic, and he had been promised glory, and so it seemed it was an offer her couldn't refuse.


	9. The Many Uses of Magic

**London**

Planning for war is always a difficult task, for there is so much uncertainty that it is hard to know firstly whether the war will even take place, and then how many men will be required, when it will take place, where it will take place – it is a job for a clever strategist, and it was therefore fortunate that on the throne of England there sat an intelligent man who was experienced in planning battles. After all, had he not led armies at Tewkesbury and Barnet? And had those armies not won, seizing an overwhelming victory after entirely crushing the enemy?

King Richard III had learnt the art of war from a very early age. He had been merely eighteen at Tewkesbury, after all. The heady sense of chivalry that was gained from such matters also attracted him – he felt as though he was a warrior of legend, a true knight, that had he been alive in the time of King Arthur, he would have sat at the Round Table itself.

Or at the least, such had been his glorious thoughts before King Arthur himself had turned up in his court.

He knew that this legendary king had been a commander at numerous battles, and that Merlin was a clever man, and so both of them were at his side during his preparations. Merlin had quietly reminded the king that Arthur had lost at Camlann – not truly through any fault of his own, of course, but treachery on the battlefield could never be ruled out, and had a tendency to scramble even the most immaculate plans. Arthur had been somewhat honoured that the king had chosen him as an advisor, but he could not help but feel a slight resentment at not being in charge.

Richard III had heard Arthur refer to him as "a scholar, surely, not a fighter". He hadn't told him that he had overheard this, merely kept his indignant feelings to himself. He hadn't quite expected such an overbearing streak in the man who had for all of his childhood been his hero, and had been quite surprised to find that he got on better with Merlin, but in war it is best to sacrifice all personal feuds and concentrate on the enemy against which all three of them were at that time united.

Since that one, key announcement that there was a magician on Tudor's side, nothing seemed to have been said regarding this particularly pressing matter. Merlin was extremely cautious about this: as he said, there were three possibilities. One: that this magician did not exist. Two: that this magician did exist, but he possessed no or little magic. Or three, the most worrying of them: the magician existed, and was capable of powerful magic, but required this time to think up a devastating plan, a surprise attack perhaps. Many times Merlin had tried to detect this magician using any way he deemed suitable – there had been one time when he had poured a jug of water into a bowl, and cast some sort of spell over it, and a face had begun to appear, only to be swept away by a stream of dark bubbles, as if a cloud was forming in the dish; another time he had enchanted a mirror and stepped into it to see if he could get to France, but when he returned, he was dripping wet and said that he had instead ended up in the Lake District. He was inclined to blame his own magic, and said that perhaps his powers did not extend to such magic as he was attempting. Richard III was not sure, and said that a curious darkness had lingered around the bowl and the mirror, darkness that Merlin knew he had not created.

Nevertheless, Richard III had sent further spies to France, and in awaiting their return there was a very dissatisfying lull in matters that seemed to weigh heavily on their shoulders.

* * *

Merlin was very cautious about using magic around Arthur. The first time he had cast a spell before him, he had found himself turning slightly away from him, so as to hide the glow in his eyes – a habit that he still had from the times long ago when those with his powers had been so persecuted. But Arthur knew that he had magic, and said very little when he saw it performed; it was only when they returned to Arthur's lodgings one evening that Merlin dared to ask him what his thoughts were on magic now.

'I...' Arthur began, and blushing a little, he stared into the fireplace whilst he thought up an answer. 'Merlin, I can't say that I'm not guilty about... well, everything, I suppose. You yourself know that I was unreasonably harsh on magic, even after my father's death...'

Merlin nodded and could not meet his eyes.

'I like to think that had you shown me your magic at that time, I would have accepted it, because you were a friend...' He swallowed. 'You and I know that sadly that wouldn't have been the case. And for that I'm sorry. I think my father had some influence over my views: I think I inherited his distrust, and to be fair, the uses of magic I have come by have nearly always been bad.' He was aware that he was making excuses now: to his great relief, Merlin did not seem to scorn this

'To be fair,' his friend agreed with a casual shrug. 'I suppose you were nearly killed several times by magicians.' He tried to smile, but it was not truly genuine.

'Yet now I see good magic for what it is. I think you changed my mind... in my final moments, you changed my mind.'

They both sat back for a long while, remembering. Even now that Arthur sat before him, alive and well, Merlin still found that tears crept to the corners of his eyes when he thought on his friend's death. He was almost deliriously glad that it had not proved to be the end.

'And now I see that your magic is useful, very useful... But at the same time, if there is a magician on the enemy side as well, I cannot say that I completely trust magic and magicians.'

'Nor do I,' murmured Merlin. This matter of the French magician admittedly still weighed on his mind. A descendant of Morgana and Mordred! If that was possible (which, to be honest, he doubted) he did not know whether this man might in fact wield greater powers than his. Magic was passed down through the generations, but did not become diluted, rather showing itself at random in the family tree, and in various degrees of strength.

'But this is the situation, and I suppose we can't deny it, only work with it,' Arthur said. 'I've faced difficult challenges before,' he added breezily, unable to resist a small boast.

'Yes, and I've usually been the one to get you out of them,' Merlin grinned.

At this, Arthur glared indignantly (but good-naturedly) at him. 'The number of times I've had to save _your_ neck... I think we're at least equals.'

'Yeah, but you didn't have to clean my boots or polish my armour,' retorted Merlin chuckling. 'Though admittedly, I did use magic for that quite a lot...'

'You used magic to do your chores?' Arthur raised one eyebrow. 'You mean to say you never did any actual work? No wonder you were always so damned chirpy. I knew you were lazy, but...'

'It's hard work, doing magic,' Merlin protested, but in his mind's eye he could see himself lying on his bed with his nose in a book whilst armour and boots cleaned themselves around him.

'Oh, really?' Arthur said, grinning. 'Well, it never seemed to take much of a toll on you. Morris was always ready to collapse after a week of hard work.' He paused. 'And having magic never seemed to improve your status as the worst servant Camelot had ever seen.'

'Hey!' cried Merlin, and his eyes flashed. A moment later, the boot-scrubber from the front door flew in through the window and began to shine the boots that Arthur were still wearing, forcing him to wave his legs around as they scrubbed different parts of the boots. When the boots were so clean that they shone, Merlin flicked his wrist a little and made the scrubber first scrub Arthur's trousers, then his gloves.

'All right!' laughed Arthur. 'Merlin-that-tickles-stop-it.'

'Not until you call me the _best_ servant that Camelot had ever seen,' Merlin told him.

The scrubber moved upwards, now getting the dirt from the boots all over the doublet that Arthur had quickly become rather fond of. 'Merlin-make-it-stop!'

'Say it,' Merlin commanded him.

'That-would-be-lying,' Arthur gasped out in between involuntary giggles.

Merlin made the scrubber rub Arthur's nose extra hard.

'All right!' Arthur cried. 'You were the best servant I ever had, I mean the best Camelot ever had.'

The scrubber fell to the floor with a crash. Merlin looked at Arthur almost affectionately.

'Well, I'm glad we cleared that up,' he shrugged with a smile. Then, picking up the scrubbing-brush: 'Magic does have its uses, you have to admit. Anyway, I needed a bit of practice.' He thought for a moment. 'Do you know, if the worst comes to the worst, I could always scrub Henry Tudor to death.'


End file.
